


Call

by Mijumaru



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, and falls in love with an over-friendly asshole, because i want to write fanfiction, cmon, go up to them, hey tell me about basic training, i know so many people who went through basic but what am i gonna do like, tiny farmboy joins the army, why
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:56:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mijumaru/pseuds/Mijumaru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morrison was 18 years old and average.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call

It's shaping up to be a hot Virginia summer when you meet  _ him _ .

Your name is John Morrison, and you were 18, the middle child of 7, on your family farm in the devil's ass crack of Indiana. It was the first time your father had spoken to you all week. "You'll never amount to anything unless you leave home and join the army." He had said to you in a voice not cruel or angry, but matter-of fact. You couldn’t see his eyes.

So you went. 

You stand shoulder to shoulder now with the other army recruits, the humid coastal air creeping into the corners of your training uniform. Virginia feels claustrophobic compared to the rolling fields of your hometown, and, feeling like a cornered rat, you're losing your nerve. Years of physical labor have made your body hard, but the fear of getting booted out of basic anyway on the first day eats at you like termites. 

"Got a problem, Morrison?" The drill sergeant is suddenly nose to nose with you, barking voice ringing in your ears. You had been shifting your weight from toe to toe without noticing it, jostling the men on either side of you. "You wanna get out of here that fucking badly, I can ship you home right now!"

"No, sir!" You shout, voice cracking. Your terror is too obvious. 

"Take an extra three laps around the yard! And straighten that back!"

"Yes sir!"

You resolve to not let your mind wander any more. Waking up at the break of dawn, following directions, and strenuous exercise are three things you've known your whole life, and failing when things should be easiest would just be utterly humiliating. You take off running around the dirt track, kicking up dry dust all over your new issue white tennis shoes. You find that your legs feel surprisingly light, not constrained by heavy calf-high boots for the first time in years.

Just a term of service, and you'd find yourself. That’s your whole plan, and you're realizing just how empty it sounds. As you loop back to where the rest of your squad is doing pushups, you wonder why the others are there. More noble causes, certainly. Though "protecting the innocent, preserving the peace" sounds good, you hardly have a concept of anything outside your ordinary farm life, and your father's steely gaze stands out more in your mind than the theoretical cries of a hundred dying children.

It sounds so terrible. Resolutions already broken, you trip, stumbling forward a few feet before recovering ungracefully. Through the heavy grunts of the other recruits comes a single sharp ring of laughter.

You can feel your ears flushing hot but you don't stop running, unwilling to get a second strike by the drill sergeant. His booming voice comes anyway, audibly showering your squad in a mist of spit, and you almost trip again. "Watch your own goddamn ass, Reyes! Five laps!"

“Yes, sir.” The snickering doesn’t stop as the so-called Reyes jogs up behind you, settling easily into your pace. The other man’s gaze bores into the side of your head. “Hey, Morrison, right?”

“Yeah.”

“First one to get in trouble. Now I can say it wasn’t me.”

You can only manage an embarrassed noise in response, eyes glued straight ahead of you. All you’ve managed to make yourself into so far was a spectacle.

“Where are you from?”

“Indiana.”

“Ah. Los Angeles.” Reyes has the comfortable, lazy tone of someone who came from the city. Well, you think so anyway. You’ve never actually met anyone from any city, or anyone around your age, for that matter. “Gabriel Reyes. Nice to meet you, farmboy.”

“John.” You correct him. 

“You don’t really have an accent, huh? I kind of imagined you’d sound like… ‘hey y’all!’”

“I think that’s the south.”

“Where is Indiana, anyway?”

“Uh, northeast, I guess?”

Reyes laughs at that. “Yeah, but it’s still basically bumfuck nowhere, isn’t it?” Lost for words at just how rude he’s being, you can do nothing but turn to him. But Reyes is just grinning earnestly at you. It makes you feel weird. “Guess we never would’ve met if not for the army, huh? That’s kind of cool.”

Another lap around, and the drill sergeant is eyeing the both of you up. “Reyes! You looking for another ten laps?”

Reyes jolts, his shoulder knocking into yours as he straightens up. “No, sir!” 

“Less talking, more running! You too, Morrison!”

Finally, blessed silence. 

You begin thinking about your year’s stint with the army again, fantasizing about the man you’d become (18 or not, you’re still a boy, after all) when Reyes’ hushed, awed voice comes from your side. “So, Goldilocks… did you guys have cows?”

\--

“Hey, blondie!” Reyes’ boisterous voice comes over the crowd, making the hair on your neck stand on end. Slowly you look up, conversation with the other recruits interrupted.

“ _ John. _ ” You insist sullenly as Reyes shoves people aside to sit across from you. He ignores you entirely in favor of wolfing down his food. The other recruits smile at you a little apologetically and get up to bus their trays. Your family near-beat politeness into you, so you stay, dutifully nibbling at carrots, which you hate. You can almost hear your mother chiding at your younger siblings, not bothering to turn around to tell you you’re too old to be so picky.

Reyes flicks a pea at you, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

“Sorry. Were you saying something?”

“No, you were just zoning out.”

_ What was the point of that? _ Mildly annoyed, you excuse yourself, vegetables all but forgotten until they roll off your tray onto the floor. You try to catch them but just end up dropping and shattering your glass, almost mockingly scattering shards every which way.

Reyes is laughing again, and you can do nothing but look around wildly until janitorial staff comes to save you. You both are subjected to another round of laps, and another barrage of Reyes’ questions. 

Later you the sergeant refers to you as “Farmer Butterfingers.” He never calls you by your name again. 

\--

Panicking a little, you check your assignment sheet five times, looking between the door and the cursed piece of paper in your hands. But you can’t deny it. The sheet clearly has your name, and-

Reyes claps you loudly on the back. The momentum swings his heavy duffel bag into you as well, and you stumble sideways, glowering a little at the floor. “Hey there, John Deere! Looks like we keep bumping into each other, huh?”

“Stop giving me weird nicknames.”

“That one’s basically your name, though. Wheaties?”

“John.”

“Come on, that one was good. You know, like wheat. And the breakfast of champions.”

“ _ John. _ ”

“But ‘John’ just doesn’t fit you, man.”

You shrug. “It’s my name.” If you were being honest, you feel the same way. John is your grandfather, not you, and the name just brings up memories of chewing tobacco and sweat that makes your nose wrinkle and your throat clench, and a lifetime of achievements that you’ve already missed the boat on. But the name itself is plain, and that much suits you, at least more than anything else.

You finally swipe the right card into your room, and Reyes pushes past you to claim the bed under the window, throwing his bag haphazardly onto it. Quickly he himself follows, springs creaking under his weight. 

He heaves out a long groan as he relaxes, stretching ungracefully across the tiny shared space between your beds. You silently step over him and start unpacking, although there's not much. Not enough to look busy until Reyes falls asleep or something, anyway. 

Of course, it's not like doing something helps you. If anything it just makes Reyes more determined to bother you. “So, ranchero, why’d you enlist?” He sits up, crossing his legs up on the bed with his dirty tennis shoes still on. You gesture at your clothes with your head, but Reyes just patiently watches you, waiting for an answer.

“John. To protect the country.” You half-lie. Your father's face pops up in your thoughts again. “You?”

“Something like that.” He responds a little too quickly, but you're not about to encourage him to talk more. You wonder about it (briefly) though. Maybe his reasons really are the same as yours. Reyes changes the subject eagerly. “Lucky that I get to room with someone I like already.”

You automatically respond “me too,” internally cursing your upbringing. That makes Reyes grin brightly at you though, and you can feel your brow soften. Well, at least he didn't seem like one of those bloodthirsty, aggressive guys you'd always heard joined the army to kill. You could definitely do worse. 

\--

3 months in, Reyes has finally run out of nicknames and is repeating old ones. “On your six!” You turn on his command and take out the other recruit who’d been sneaking up on you. He barks out commands at the rest of your squad with you covering him. For what it's worth, the two of you actually make a pretty good team. By some loose definition you might actually consider Reyes to be a friend. 

Two blanks whiz past your ears. “Goddammit, Haystack, I told you to watch your back!” 

By a very, very loose definition.

There's a loud yelp from behind you, and you hear the other team whooping when you get a blank to your helmet. Reyes is cursing loudly as the lights in the range turn on, a buzzer signifying the end of your session. 

You recoil a little as he stomps towards you, but he shoulders past you to grab one of your teammates by the vest. “What the hell, Parker?! Why didn't you stay in formation?”

Parker just looks at him boredly. “It's just a drill, dude.”

“You're not supposed to treat it like one! They saw you because you were out of position. What happens when it's real?”

“But it's not. And you're not the leader, Reyes.”

“I’m just trying-”

“No one wants to listen to a pushy asshole like you.”

Reyes flinches like he’s been shocked. He throws Parker back, expression dark. Dropping his helmet and vest on the floor, he stalks out of the training room, and as soon as the automatic doors slide shut your squadmates start muttering to each other. 

“Just because he's a little athletic he thinks he's the boss.”

“I know. He always thinks he's right, too.”

Reyes usually is right, though. It actually amazes you just how little he seems to take people’s feelings into regard until he’s on the battlefield, where suddenly he’s got eyes everywhere to cover you. And he’s got good instincts.

“Stop it, guys.” Words come unbidden out of your mouth, and the surprise in everyone's eyes is no match for your own. “He's... just looking out for you.”

They exchange looks for awhile, making you shift uncomfortably in your training gear. You're not even sure what possessed you to stick up for Reyes like this. But to be fair, despite how obnoxious you might think he is, he really has been nothing but friendly to you. He has no filter, but it's vastly preferable to your father's judging, unreadable gaze. And what you said was true- Reyes always notices if you’re hurt or in one of your negative moods, even though he tries to cheer you up in his own… special ways. 

Your team's sudden outburst of laughter snaps you out of your thoughts. “You’re just too good of a guy, Morrison.” 

“Naive, even.” Lee chimes in, patting you on the shoulder. “Not everyone here’s your friend, bud. ”

“Reyes is.” You say with more conviction now.

“Is that what you’d call Stockholm Syndrome?” They give you a pitying laugh as you embarrassedly shuffle backwards out of the training area, grabbing Reyes’ gear to put it away. Cleaning yourself up quickly, you rush back to your shared room. 

As you expected, you find Reyes there, listlessly sprawled out, staring at the ceiling. His feet are on your bed, shoes and all, but you let it go.

“Hey, Morrison.”

“John.”

“C'mon, that's actually your name.” He smiles weakly but doesn’t turn to look at you. 

“Yeah, exactly. You’re being weird.”

He grunts noncommittally back. You sit down on your bed, pushing his feet aside even though he still doesn’t take them off your covers. 

“They just don’t like being ordered around, Reyes.”

“I’m not ‘ordering them around.’ Someone has to take charge.”

“It’s your tone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my tone.” He’s getting aggravated now, pulling his beanie down on his head to hide his forehead wrinkles. 

“They’ll come around.” Reyes is notoriously hard to deal with- obnoxiously over-friendly in his good moods, sulky in his bad ones, and rude no matter what- but you realize you’ve gotten pretty used to it. You pat his shin, and he begins tapping a pattern into your side with his toe in response.

“Jack.”

“Hm?”

He sits up, expression brightening. “That one’s okay?”

You didn’t even realize it was a nickname. Something about it somehow feels... right. In any case, it’s certainly better than when he was calling you “Pitchfork” or “Old McDonald.” 

And no one else in your family is “Jack.” You kind of like that.

\--

By the time you’re six months into training, you and Gabriel have settled into an easy rhythm. Living together has brought you close, forcefully or not, and you know each other’s habits like they’re your own. The combat trainers have even started to place you onto separate teams, since together you have a near-perfect record.

As usual, it’s come down to the two of you. Darting around corners and dodging shots, it’s more like a chess battle than a gunfight, both of you trying to stay one step ahead of the other. The familiar click of an emptied barrel is enough for you to dash out, catching Reyes square in the chest as he tosses aside his gun and reaches for another. He clicks his tongue at you, looking a little annoyed to have lost.

Your team surrounds you, cheering for your shared victory. You flash them a quick smile. “Good work. Sorry I didn’t catch the guy on your tail, Hashimoto.” 

She shakes her head. “I should’ve seen ‘em.” 

“Feels good to end the week on a win.” 

“We should go get drinks!”

“Sure, let me go get Reyes.” In high spirits, you ignore the uncomfortable looks your team gives each other. 

“He’s 21.” Someone points out, and they let you go.

Semi-reluctantly Reyes agrees, and you cheerfully lead the group to a local liquor store before you all retreat to the barracks, curling up together into Shelton’s triple. 

The mood quickly mellows once you all have some alcohol in you, and you’re pleased to see that your team is even engaging Reyes in conversation once in awhile. His unsure smile has given way to a genuine one, and if anything, he’s become  _ concerningly  _ exuberant. Luckily, the army officers don’t really care if the recruits drink, as long as they stay inside.

You can feel your whole body relaxing and warming up under your down jacket. Virginia is cold now, and you’re a stranger to its bitterness from the ocean winds. The other recruits have introduced you to liquor beyond diluted church wine, and you sip happily from your shotglass of whiskey, the week’s stress draining out of you. 

People keep refilling your glass, and your cheeks feel numb from laughing and smiling so much. At some point Reyes crossed the room to sit beside you, and as the night wears on your head droops closer and closer to his shoulder. You feel warm and contented, and soon you’re all but lying on top of him, his body comforting as your heart rate continues to rise.

The room is beginning to spin. You squeeze your eyes shut and nuzzle into his arm, wiping your running nose on his sleeve. 

Laughing. “Did Morrison already pass out?”

“Looks like it.”

Reyes nudges you. “Time for us to go. Can you stand up?”

You shake your head and feel pleased with yourself. 

“You’re such a lightweight.” From slitted eyes you can see him looking at you almost fondly.

When Reyes tries to wrap your arm around him you stumble. There’s a sudden wave of warmth in front of you as he heaves you onto his back, gripping your legs tightly to hold you up. You use all your strength to hold on as he carries you through the hallways back to your room. The warm back of his head musses your hair.

The piercing white light of the hallways gives way to the darkness of your room, and Reyes flails a little to keep you up when you relax your entire body. “Thanks, Reyes.” You slur happily.

“Gabe.” 

Seeing your surprise at having the tables turned, he gives you a cheeky, tipsy smile. Heat rises rapidly in your body. You suddenly feel too lucid for it to be the alcohol, but still too drunk to be introspective. He helps you into your bed, and you can hear the springs of his bed protest as he throws himself into his.

“Gabe.” You repeat softly, his name sweet on your tongue. 

\--

The end of basic training.

Backs turned, the two of you are getting dressed in your shared room, hardly having any space to move without bumping elbows. All your things are packed up, but it seems like it never was much at all, fitting neatly back into the ratty duffel bag you moved in with.

You feel a stinging sense of nostalgia as you canvas the room. One more night before you were getting shipped out even farther from home. Your bag actually seems fuller than it was, but you and Gabe can sort that out when you get to Nevada. 

You’d left a message on your parents’ answering machine, and they had yet to get back to you. It doesn’t bother you as much as you’d expect.

“You done yet?”

“Yeah.”

In unison you turn to each other. Gabe looks taller, bigger, even though you’re the same height, standing up straighter than usual in his sleek black jacket. He regards you thoughtfully, and you squirm a little under his lingering gaze. His head looks oddly naked without his usual hat, but you find it kind of nice. You turn before the urge to run your hands through his hair overwhelms you, pretending to look for the tie you’re already wearing in your bag. 

“You’re really the perfect all-American boy, aren’t you, Jack?” Comes Gabe’s breathless whisper from behind you, admiration obvious in his voice. When you look back his eyes capture yours, and suddenly the collar of your dress uniform feels too tight and hot, because he’s looking at only you, really seeing  _ you _ . 

You’re not a weak shadow of your grandfather, or the quiet, naive country boy with no potential. You’re 19, and you didn’t know what you wanted to be, but you were recommended for the soldier enhancement program. More importantly, for the first time in your life, you're just you, just Jack Morrison, and Gabriel Reyes makes you feel special.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway i was toying with the idea of happy/boisterous gabe bringing out the super sunshine in jack (and giving him his nickname? cute) because it brings the stealth angst when he becomes a bitter asshole yay!
> 
> originally posted at http://mijumaru.co.vu/post/145999550305/wanna-watch-jack-fall-in-love-i-know-i-do


End file.
